‘Gosh, that seemed to do the trick.’ The woman smiled, then offered Charles her hand. ‘Beatriz Margosian. And these,’ she said, glancing around her, ‘are little Leon and Zabelle.’

  They sat in wicker chairs by the potted palms. A big mirror behind them, showing the glittering lobby, surfaces polished to a high shine, women lingering under its fans before heading into the May heat and the smell of manure in the streets beyond.

  ‘My husband travels much of the year. We are generally in Paris but in winter there’s always a spell in Alexandria.’

  Charles tried to imagine this woman, her young children and copious luggage moving between their summer and winter residences.

  ‘It is much less charmant than it sounds. Darling, stop that,’ she said, addressing Leon who was pulling down a palm frond. She turned to a girl in uniform hovering nearby who stepped in and led the boy away.

  ‘Perhaps we might take some tea, Mr Wright? I’m sure my husband would be pleased to make your acquaintance. Or perhaps something a little stronger? I find sometimes that is the only remedy for such intense heat.’

  The tea came and was laid in front of them at the table. Charles found he could not stop looking at her. He tried to compose himself on the wicker chair as Beatriz Margosian outlined her life as if they were friends from the cradle suddenly reacquainted.

  ‘I met him on a yacht of all places. It belonged to a nobleman. A Visconti something or other. Have you spent much time on boats, Mr Wright?’

  Besides a trip around the Isle of Wight, Charles conceded he had not and somehow this led to Beatriz Margosian telling him about her life as an actress in the brief years between girlhood and meeting her husband. When eventually Margosian arrived he was a short, wide-torsoed man with very sallow skin. He breathed noisily through his mouth. He looked to Charles like a man assembled for manual work, a compact toughness, a well-fed peasant solidity, in a suit of expensive cloth. He took a long, unblinking look at Charles.

  ‘This gentleman was kind enough to help with the room,’ Beatriz Margosian said, rising in her seat and presenting Charles. Charles stood and gave a bow.

  ‘You are working for the hotel?’ Margosian asked, his voice clipped and slightly uncomprehending.

  ‘Oh no, don’t be silly, Mr Wright is attending the conference, like you, darling.’

  ‘Ah,’ Margosian said, now placing Charles.

  ‘And what are your reflections?’ Margosian asked, carelessly pouring tea for himself. It splashed onto the saucer which he tipped out into one of the palms.

  ‘Well,’ Charles said, ‘it seems a long way to come to hear ideas I’ve heard a thousand times before at my club.’

  The pinprick of pomposity seemed to amuse Margosian.

  ‘And at this time of year,’ he said, fanning himself.

  ‘Quite,’ said Charles, glancing at Beatriz Margosian, who was laughing.

  ‘Well, I hope to see you again, perhaps at the conference?’ Margosian said, a slight narrowing of his eyes in what was not quite approval. ‘If you will excuse me, I’ve a meeting to attend.’

  McDonald had reported back that evening with copiously transcribed notes as they drank strong beer and ate medallions of pork in a coolish cellar restaurant. Charles’s appetite for the conference was even duller the next day. He sent McDonald for the morning session but promised him the afternoon off. Charles wandered down to the park in front of the hotel. He walked around the boating pond. A white-sailed skiff with two children on board was tacking in a slow progress across the water. It was here he saw Beatriz Margosian for a second time. She was alone, the nanny and Leon and Zabelle nowhere to be seen. She wore a straw hat with ostrich plumes.

  ‘Mrs Margosian.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘Mr Wright. Playing truant, are we? Soon you will find yourself in possession of une mauvaise réputation.’

  They strolled around the pond, the park, talking idly of the weather, the suite to which she had been moved, about Beatriz Margosian’s life on the stage, her debut at the Haymarket aged fifteen. When Charles enquired about her early life she told him a sequence of conflicting stories: she was the eldest daughter of a tea planter in Assam, or an orphan raised by Ursuline nuns, or the tenth child of an analytical chemist. She glanced at the clock on the tea house across the pond, took a quick breath as if remembering some important engagement, then, taking her leave of him, said, ‘I shall allow you to choose whichever you think best fits.’ Charles watched her walk away, no longer in a rush, batting the grass with her parasol.

  That evening Charles went down to the lobby of the hotel, to the same table under the palms in the hope he might see Beatriz again. He ordered a brandy and soda which came at room temperature in a tiny glass. When eventually he saw Beatriz she was dressed for dinner, grey silk, patterned with Venetian lace and gold thread. Her hair was pinned, as if she had stepped from the pages of Paris Temps. There were diamonds at her ears. She saw him at the table.

  ‘I have enjoyed our conversations. I am intrigued by you.’

  She let the words hang in the air.

  ‘My husband will be down in a moment,’ she said, handing him the corner of a bill of sale from a jeweller’s; on the back was an address in Paris.

  ‘A friend. Write to me here.’

  Charles looked up from his desk to hear McDonald finishing his account of the week across the mills. He thanked him for his report, asked a couple of questions to which they both already knew the answer, then walked him to the door. Once again the thought occurred to him that the business was like a stone rolling down a hill; all he need do was not attempt to arrest its progress. When he returned to his desk he made a note that he must not entertain Ruislip and McDonald on the same day again. He opened the drawer, slid the photograph to one side and touched at the letter. There was a knock. He shut the drawer and locked it.

  ‘Come,’ he called out against the din of the machines. It was Henry Allsop, the office boy, who ran messages between the clerks and typists two floors below.

  ‘Mr Wright, sir,’ he said. ‘Your wife is here to see you. Says it’s urgent.’

  Before he could rise to greet her, Hettie began her monologue, as though they had been deep in conversation only moments before.

  ‘And you see, the thing is,’ she said, one hand briefly on her hip, then against her brow as if taking her own temperature, ‘I had told the men at Pauldens they were to deliver it today, this morning, before midday, and not, and I expressly said this, not tomorrow.’

  The hem of her dress was wet. Her bony, fluent hands moved continually as she spoke.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t see, Charles, do you? I said today.’

  ‘Hettie, sit down please.’

  ‘We need this addressed at once. You will accompany me to Pauldens?’

  ‘Hettie, it’s the middle of the day, there are four hundred people at work in this building, I am not at liberty to accompany you anywhere.’

  Charles gestured to the chair opposite his desk

  ‘Please, Hettie, come on now.’

  *

  The mother in her high-backed chair looked stately and ancient. Her still, impassive face like a sultan, opulent in the light from the open range. She must have heard many words like these, oratory, impassioned speeches. Perhaps, Tabitha thought, that was why she allowed her young companions to keep talking, to let the conversation spend itself and peter out. Or perhaps she was intrigued by what was being mooted, the spirit with which they held forth, though her countenance betrayed none of this.

  ‘We are talking about taking some form of direct action,’ said a woman.

  ‘About bloody doing something,’ came a sterner voice from the back of the room.

  The mood had changed, the buzz of conversation faded. Tabitha saw the women in the kitchen glance from one to the other, a shifting and settling of skirts. She knew most by sight but only a few by name. There was Eileen Kiernan and her friend Molly Allen. Their hosts, the mother and her daughters who had done so much for the cause. The elder daughter, at the first meeting she had come to with Eileen, had asked about her volunteering at the school, then where her family made their money. She knew of her brother she said, and the phrase had been weighted to suggest something unscrupulous about him, something not beyond reproach. Tabitha had almost risen to his defence. Though what was she being asked to defend? And what did this woman know of Charles?

  The younger daughter bent to the range and placed some coal inside. When she looked up her face had reddened. She straightened a brooch on her blouse. The talk of direct action had ameliorated and now a more recognisable set of speeches began; reports, news, letters from friends in London. When the time came Eileen took to her feet, as prompted. She seemed at her most confident among the other women. There was nothing of the circumspect girl she knew from the school.

  ‘It is my belief that the newspapers have begun to lose interest. That we are beset on all sides, despite our best efforts, by inertia and conventionalism.’

  A crackle of laughter moved through the women.

  ‘I am minded to return to our founding belief. I echo the sentiments of moments ago: the time for fine words has passed.’

  One by one the women bid farewell and left the kitchen.

  ‘A word, if I may.’ Her voice was resonant but weary.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Tabitha.

  She patted the chair beside her at the range. There was something slightly sad, Tabitha observed, but also very dignified about her face close up; the long slit of her mouth, the long nose, those wide impassive eyes which spoke both of forbearance and having looked on injustices too long.

  ‘We are grateful you joined us today.’

  ‘I am grateful for the opportunity.’

  ‘There are, to say the least, some testing times ahead.’

  A daughter appeared at the door but was waved away.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, leaning forward slightly and taking one of Tabitha’s hands in her own, ‘what do you make of our Miss Kiernan?’

  Tabitha thought about it, not wanting to betray her friend, yet wanting to mark herself out as beyond the normal measure of usefulness.

  ‘She is committed. Intelligent. She burns with an uncommon zeal.’

  ‘And you trust her?’

  She was surprised by her host’s directness.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘She is not, how should I put this, too wild? Too headstrong? Too rash in ways which might hamper our efforts? I ask you as a newcomer, as a fresh pair of eyes.’

  Tabitha looked into the range as the coals shifted, then up to the cool porcelain of the plates on the dresser.

  ‘If I may speak freely,’ Tabitha said, ‘I believe Miss Kiernan possesses the exact fire our cause demands.’

  The mother took a moment to absorb this, as if filing the words away somewhere.

  ‘Very good, then we are in accord,’ she said, and Tabitha’s sense of being interrogated lifted.

  ‘I look forward to talking at greater length.’ She released Tabitha’s hand. ‘But for now there are more pressing concerns.’ She nodded to her daughter who was standing at the doorway, an empty moleskin coat held up by the shoulders.

  ‘Jevan, the Prodigal Son at the Queen’s – we’ve seats in the dress circle.’

  *

  Dinner on Friday was served at seven o’clock and it had become an unspoken rule that all would attend. There were vases of cut flowers on the table. The electric lights were off, the room lit by palmatine candles.

  ‘She is a dissident, frater,’ Eloise said with a smile, ‘hatching to bring the whole establishment down. Isn’t that right, Tab?’

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ Tabitha said, pouring herself a glass of water.

  ‘It’s true, I know what goes on at those meetings.’

  Eloise glanced to her brother to see if her baiting of Tabitha was amusing him.

  ‘I think the Ladies’ Committee has more to do with charitable works, et cetera.’ He gave a soft, forgiving smile which seemed to suggest Eloise should desist.

  ‘All that seditious literature on her nightstand. What’s his name, Perkin Gilsman?’

  ‘You might want to look inside a book sometime, Ellie, it’s a wonder what ends up in there,’ Tabitha said drily, provoking a smile from their brother.

  ‘Where’s that soup?’ asked Charles.

  The soup, a purée de pommes Portugaise, was brought in by one of the young men who assisted Cook. When first asked, in vague terms, if she might be able to prepare ‘more complex dishes of foreign provenance’, she had looked at Charles as if asked to dig a privy. The compromise had been an extra pair of hands called in each Friday to undertake the finer work. After soup, there would usually follow a quenelle or a rissole, then beef or medallions of veal, and to finish a milky blancmange or an ice pudding in a fluted pillar mould.

  ‘Well, frater, what do we have from that kitchen of yours today? I must say I was very disappointed we were not joined by another of your guests.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tabitha added, ‘we should like to have seen more of your Mr Allardyce.’

  Allardyce was a barrister with a collection of two hundred South American moths who was writing a paper for the forthcoming volume of the Entomologist. After dinner last month he had played a piece from a concerto by a Russian named Goedicke. As he finished he stood up as if too deeply moved to continue with the evening. It was raining heavily and he left without his umbrella.

  ‘I say, do we know if Mr Allardyce made it back to his lodgings?’ Eloise asked.

  ‘He really is a remarkable chap,’ said Charles. ‘I spent an evening with him once at my club.’

  ‘Before he vanished,’ said Eloise.

  ‘Quite,’ said Charles. ‘He listed the names of over one hundred species of butterfly native to England.’

  ‘How many can you remember?’ asked Tabitha.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Charles, ‘setting aside those we all know, the Red Admirables and Painted Ladies, I would begin with the Swallowtail and Grizzled Skipper.’

  ‘We shall need their Latin names,’ said Tabitha.

  ‘Well, there’s also, the –’

  But before he could continue Charles was interrupted.

  ‘Charles, may I speak with you?’ Hettie was at the door. She looked pale and addressed the floor. Charles excused himself and pressed his napkin to his lips.

  ‘What is it now?’ said Tabitha.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Eloise.

  When Charles came back into the room he unfolded his napkin and made to sit down, then pinched the bridge of his nose. He stood with one arm supporting him against the table. His outline looked, to Eloise, like a reaper on a weathervane. He glanced out of the window then exhaled.

  ‘I’m afraid I have a terrible headache, will you excuse me?’

  ‘Charles, don’t be silly, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eloise, ‘more for us.’ She held her knife and fork at right angles to the table. Charles pinched the bridge of his nose again and gave a nod to each of his sisters.

  April

  Charles was standing in the hallway with Claude, who was dressed identically to his father in a belted Norfolk jacket, bow tie, plus fours and flat cap. Charles had made a promise to Hettie that morning to present Claude at the Royal Windermere Yacht Club. This was met first with enthusiasm from his son, naming the racing yachts they had seen when last there, Zika, Ripple and Caress, which Percy Crossley had let them inspect at close quarters at the chandler’s. But over the course of the morning this turned into anxiety, Claude asking who he would have to meet and talk with, about what questions he might expect and what answers he might give. Charles was attempting to find some useful duty for Claude when Tabitha approached them.

  ‘Charles, I’ve sent a telegram to Knowles and he’s made provision for me to return to Manchester on Thursday morning.’

  ‘Thursday morning?’ Charles asked, turning Claude by his shoulders and pointing him towards a suitcase at the top of the stairs beside two pigskin hat boxes.

  ‘I have an engagement I cannot miss.’

  ‘May I ask what this engagement is?’

  ‘It is a committee meeting, Charles.’

  He mimed thinking, tapping his finger against the bow of his lips.

  ‘The Temperance League? The Manchester Automobile Club?’ He laughed then became more serious. ‘But you will be returning that evening?’

  ‘No, I will not. My meeting is in the late afternoon and, as you know, it’s too far to come up and down in a day.’

  There was a peace lily in a metal bowl on the table. He took one of the leaves in his fingers and inspected it.

  ‘Then perhaps on the Friday you will rejoin us?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps on the Friday.’

  Tabitha picked up a bundle of clothes she was taking to Windermere.

  ‘You know, I was speaking with Miss Kiernan.’

  Something in Tabitha’s voice set Charles on edge.

  ‘Did you know every Monday her mother has to pawn the bedding they sleep on.’ She raised her bundle for emphasis.

  ‘Are they not in work?’

  ‘Yes, Charles, they are in work and Miss Kiernan contributes her wages to the household.’

  ‘But they are not employed by us?’

  ‘No, Charles, they are not.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid there is very little I can do.’

  ‘Your friends in London, who invest money up here, do they know the effect on humanity or do they think us some wild place?’

  There was a pause. Charles seemed to debate whether it was worth responding.

  ‘This –’ he traced a loose halo with his finger – ‘where do you think it all comes from?’

  It was a controlled anger, which sought to relegate this conversation to a place it would rarely be revived.

 

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